


Pretty Boys Make Graves

by templeandarche



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Challenge Response, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeandarche/pseuds/templeandarche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>50 sentences about Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Boys Make Graves

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dean, Sam, Metallicar and others and the world they inhabit do not belong to me. They are the genius of Kripke and I own nothing of them, just wanted to borrow for a ride. Title is shamelessly ripped from the Smiths song. No infringement intended.
> 
> Written during season 2.

1) .:drunk:.  
She smelled like sex and stale beer and her mouth tasted like sweet sin; but it’s her lush curves he wants, a night lost inside her without remembrance or judgment and a few hours free from the death and carnage that follows his every waking movement.

2) .:brown:.  
The blood dried, leaving flecks of what most would mistake for mud staining his clothing; the jagged wound left the first real scar that he bore with pride after his father had congratulated him on not crying while his torn flesh was sewn back together.

3) .:recording:.  
The static breaks and he can hear his father’s gruff voice on the line ordering him and Sammy off to hunt some other nasty and, like the good dutiful son he is, Dean bites back his questions and jots down coordinates.

4) .:thaw:.  
Every time they pulled into Pastor Jim’s drive, Dean breathed a deep sigh of relief; even if each visit lasted no more than a few short hours, these brief moments of respite brought peace—his father’s face lost the haggard lines and his body would lose the tension he carried like cement bricks upon his broad shoulders.

5) .:eyes:.  
He waited, body tensed, until Sam’s breathing slowed and his body eased back into dream-less sleep before closing his own eyes and letting the lingering effects of his brother’s nightmare fall away into the dark, free for a moment from the demon whose yellow sight burned brightest in Sammy’s slumber.

6) .:tears:.  
The loud bang jerks him some; but then his body stills and the emotions consume, lost in grief for Sam until the wetness brings him back to his present whereabouts in Madison’s apartment as the lone tear traces its way down the contours of his face.

7).:fear:.  
The dream always begins the same—he and Sam at the Grand Canyon, laughing and just _being_ , free from the demons and darkness; but then the sun dissolves and the yellow-eyed bastard brings his death and his brother lies broken at his feet, eyes rotting and sightless yet accusing in their gaze, while all he can do is scream his grief, lost on the edge of despair and madness.

8) .:hot:.  
The Impala’s air-conditioning busted a few states back and he’s got no funds to fix his baby, only windows rolled down and sweat soaked t-shirts to bide his time until he finds some long legged mechanic to work her magic for a smile.

9) .:peace:.  
The stereo blares; bass thumping so much that his ears ring and he slams his hand on the dash to the beat of the song that’s all wailing lyrics and fast guitar licks and his head bops as he sings along, content with the open road and the promise of tomorrow in front of him.

10) .:threat:.  
The beast opens its massive jaws and gnashes razor teeth, its foul breath permeating the air and eyes bleeding red; but he just grips the handle of the blade tighter and waits for it to make the first move.

11).: robe:.  
Bundled in the warmth of her body and the old terry cloth she draped around them, he remembers sitting in her lap with their hands laced together upon her protruding belly and feeling his soon-to-be brother kick.

12) .:denial:.  
No matter what their Dad said before he died, Dean was willing to bet his soul and Sammy’s that nothing was going to make his little brother go off the demon deep end; not while he’s still breathing and fighting and capable of pulling the trigger on every demonic son of a bitch that gets in his way.

13) .:push:.  
His Dad thrusts the pistol into his hands and barks orders over and over until he can draw the revolver smoothly from the holster at his side; his 12 year old body is hunched and sore from standing too long and his small fingers stiffen every time he points the gun at the imaginary villain he’s supposed to hunt.

14) .:sketch:.  
The paper napkin is his canvas; fingers stained with ink and pen cap stuck between his pursed lips as he traces runes and symbols from mystics long dead and forgotten.

15) .:shelf:.  
Danny asked him to hang out after school and he obliged for appearances sake; but the moment he steps into their perfect home and he sees the finger paintings decorating the outside of the fridge and the family portrait that rests happily in it’s wooden frame atop the mantle part of him cringes inside and he wants to go back to the hotel room with it’s stale day old food and worn grouting along the yellow bathtub.

16) .:office:.  
He can smell the infirmary’s alcohol and see the blood staining his leather coat from carrying the dead infected man to the clinic and, as he watches Sam beg him to leave, all he can think is maybe now is the time to end it, to let go of his burdens and finally see where all the evil he’s banished over the years ends up.

17) .:prison:.  
He hated each and every mind-numbing minute that he was strapped into a metal desk too small to contain his long frame and forced to listen to endless dialogues about crap he’d never need; not as long as his gun is primed and he can quote obscure Latin verse better than most university professors.

18) .:prophecy:.  
The book’s so old that the pages nearly crumble under Sammy’s touch and the bindings look enough like stretched leather skin that he feels his breakfast churn uncomfortably; but still he hovers over his brother’s shoulder, wound too tight with no way of release and almost praying to know if the wild lead they’ve found in this book of damnation will give them back their father and free him from the Hell to which he’s been bound.

19) .:confusion:.  
He pushes down the longing and tries to distract that part of himself with beer and the cheap blonde that serves it; but he can’t quite suppress the desire – it’s rare that he craves freedom from the life he has, but there are times when he wants nothing more than to put down the gun and rest his weary head.

20) .:brother:.  
Slumped from exhaustion, Dean sits in the hard plastic chairs the hospital provided listening to the steady beep of the machines they’ve glued to Sam and waits for some sign of life, some spark of movement to happen, while gripping his brothers limp hand in his own.

21) .:warning:.  
The cue slides easily in his practiced hands as he lines up the shot; even though his surly and slightly scary opponent has 40lbs on him, he can’t keep the grin off his face as white meets black and the eight ball sinks into the side pocket.

22) .:connection:.  
Cassie sleeps content and sated as his hands caress the softness of her skin and his eyes close; the year’s since he’d last held her close dissolve away and he remembers the past that belonged to them when he still had some brightness to his being.

23) .:jeep:.  
Bobby once tried to convince Dean that he needed a more rugged ride, but he had just laughed and stroked the hood of his baby—his girl had gotten him out of more tight spots and out run more state troopers than any four wheel drive piece of crap his mechanic friend could offer.

24) .:investigation:.  
Sometimes he wonders how people can be so damn trusting; Sam’s puppy dog eyes shouldn’t matter to the local coroner or town Sheriff and yet, every time they flash a fake badge and his brother bats his eyelashes, people pony up the goods quicker than a virgin on prom night.

25).:card:.  
The gypsy flips the weathered cards over one by one, wrinkled arthritic hands revealing wands and cups and lovers and, as she hovers momentarily over the last in the circle, he knows instinctively what’s coming, what’s always been coming—the black hood, the silver gleam of a scythe and the bleached bone face that’s chased him from Lawrence to the current hell he resides in.

26) .:symbol:.  
The guitar gleamed near black in the dim bar light, wood polished to perfection with each silver string tuned to give sweet melody, and as he watched the man play he wondered if his hands could have done the same had they not been trained from childhood to destroy.

27) .:nightmare:.  
He dives beneath the glassy surface of the lake, arms propelling him further beneath and his legs kicking furiously; but in his troubled mind he never resurfaces with the boy in his arms.

28) .:fly:.  
Metallica has never been the same; every time he pops the cassette into the stereo, all he can think of is being strapped in that metal death trap, fingers gripping each arm rest as he tried to keep from hyperventilating.

29) .:class:.  
Unknown and lost in the sea of students, his eyes followed his little brother around the campus while he tried to tell himself that it was just for Sam’s safety – he would never admit that missing him was as common as drawing air.

30).:twinkle:.  
The girl at the counter melts under the wattage of his grin, her eyes sparkling as he leans in close and pours on the charm, distracting her with his pretty words so Sam can pick the lock on the door that leads down into the morgue.

31) .:lonely:.  
Sometimes when he’s stuck yet again in another dank rundown motel room tending to wounds bleeding steadily inside and out, he thinks it’s too fucking much to bear the burden of being John Winchester’s first born.

32) .:electricity:.  
The currents reach every single nerve and cell in his body - a pain he’s never even imagined before and he swears later in the hospital that his soul was burnt to ash; it was only Sammy’s scared face that brought him back from oblivion and the blessed quiet he so craved.

33) .:teeth:.  
Nails painted blood red dig in deep at his thighs while she licks and sucks at his skin making him shiver and alternate from clutching her soft hair to the dew-stained grass of the empty field while biting down hard enough to bring blood as she opens her glossed mouth wide enough to swallow him whole.

34) .:trap:.  
The trickster offers all and nothing, his bland features made up into a soft grin, he gives him all a boy could want and more with a muttered prayer of long lost words: a Father who’s greatest ambition is throwing catch with his sons, a mother who still kisses her children goodnight, and a brother who is the epitome of innocence who says his prayers nightly and has never known even a shade of darkness.

35) .:surface:.  
The mirror is cracked down the center—a deep fault line that distorts the symmetry of his face and yet still the polished glass gleams under the fluorescent lighting, making him look as old as he feels; ancient and reaper-like, a gray shadow in perpetual purgatory.

36) .:stone:.  
He hated each and every worn granite marker; another reminder that his father was never going to rest beside the woman he loved above all else.

37) .:vision:.  
He feels her presence hover, sees the blue characters on her gray pajamas and the golden halo of haphazard curls that frame her face, smells her scent – clean and fresh and so very alive and, as always, he hopes that she will forgive him for not saving her and letting them both down when it mattered.

38) .:wrong:.  
Sam always bitched whenever he filled out credit card applications with fake names and stolen social security numbers, but Dean never saw the harm in it; after all, the people he ripped off benefited from never having to see the things that he did on a regular basis.

39) .:lost:.  
He can see the disappointment in his father’s eyes and in the tightness of the lines around his mouth and, even though John’s only a ghost in his head that forever haunts him, he wants so badly to please the dead man he misses so much.

40) .:sting :.  
He hisses and clenches his jaw, cursing under his breath as Sam patiently cleans his torn and bloody chest, choosing to ignore the digs at his manhood and the urge to smack his little brother silly.

41) .:crowd:.  
The noon hour rush mills around him—everyday folk who knew nothing about ghosts or vampires or werewolves, ordinary people who would laugh in his face if he had the urge to enlighten their storybook lives.

42) .:abuse:.  
Over and over again he swings at the bag, his fists pounding out his fears and pain while the sawdust-filled weight swings back and forth from each violent blow until his knuckles crack and the blood drips down each hand.

43).:comfort :.  
Silver twisted into form and figure - a talisman against evil, worn almost unrecognizable from habit and worry; but never once has he removed the necklace from his body.

44) .:home:.  
Cheap hotel rooms paid with stolen credit cards and dirty rent-by-the-week apartments are the only places he knows how to rest his head at night; give him a split level with a white picket fence and he freezes, knowing that some things in life are not meant for people like him.

45).:forest:.  
The moon glittered above him, the branches whipping across soft cheeks and callused palms as he chases the darkness and lets the night swallow him whole.

46) .:whisper:.  
The girl clings to his body and he holds her tight with one hand, the other clutching his sawed off shot gun while he dances amidst the wreckage of her home, sidestepping the carnage of her dead parents and even through the roaring in his ears and Sam’s shouts to move his ass he can make out her whimpers—softly spoken murmurs of a child’s bedtime prayer to keep them all safe from the evil that surrounds them.

47) .:secret:.  
Mrs. Jenkins would stare at him funny sometimes, her glasses falling down her nose as she took in his worn clothing and tired grin; but his ten year old self played dumb, knowing that the teacher would never understand why his homework was always written on cheap hotel stationary.

48) .:harm:.  
The house is beyond old, the floors rotting and windows gone for long time now; but still he creeps around the ruins, the dim glow of the flashlight touching upon ancient furniture covered in dust, knowing that something here is causing the folk lore and legends—some spirit that won’t lay to rest until his rock salt and lighter fluid give it reason to.

49) .:flexible:  
Dean knows that he has to bend with each new mission, if he can’t he’ll break; but there is no way he can let that happen, not when so much is riding on the job he does.

50) .:plate:.  
His fork scrapes loudly in the quiet of the diner—it’s late and he’s the only patron, but as he shovels in his food he can’t help shaking his head at the décor, only Roswell would have an alien themed restaurant; he offers a grin at the cute, almost underage brunette that refills his coffee hoping his charm will grant him a peek underneath that sinfully short skirt.


End file.
